


Into the Woods

by der_tanzer



Series: Protective Custody [2]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2010-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the justice system fails Murray, his life is in Quinlan's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Woods

Murray had been in the hospital a week when the doctor declared him healthy enough to leave, with a warning against strenuous activity. Murray had to laugh at that. He was so tired still, so weak and sore, that he wasn't even sure he wanted to go home. The hospital wasn't exactly restful, but at least nothing was expected of him.

Nick helped him on with his shirt while Cody signed the discharge papers, both of them talking about how happy they were to be taking him home, how much they'd missed him and good it was to get back to normal.

But Murray still felt terribly guilty about ruining their vacation. They'd driven to Tijuana, spent six hours at the hotel, and then driven home in the middle of the night. Ever since then, they'd been taking turns staying with him at the hospital, which he knew was worse than just being at home with him underfoot. Well, he'd be confined to his room more now and that might help.

"Guys, I'm all right. You don't have to fuss over me," he sighed as Nick fixed the sling over his flannel shirt.

"No one's fussing," Nick said. "We're just helping." They felt guilty, too.

Nick was kneeling to put Murray's shoes on when there was a short knock at the door. It swung open and Lieutenant Quinlan entered without asking permission, just as if they were already on the boat. But his usual brashness was subdued somehow, almost uncertain. He'd been over a couple of times to tell Murray what was happening with his case, but he hadn't stayed long and his attitude of rough disdain had never wavered until now.

"What's up, Lieutenant?" Cody asked, seeing no point in telling him he wasn't welcome. "Did I park illegally or something?"

"Shut up, Allen. I don't have time for your idea of humor today. Bozinsky, I got bad news."

"Oh? What's wrong, Lieutenant?" He tried to sound uninterested but Quinlan's face troubled him. The cop looked worried, almost scared, and that was just wrong. He should never look like that because of someone as insignificant as Murray.

"Blackwell and those guys were arraigned yesterday. Him and the shooter are being held over for trial, but the other two made bail. Word on the street is, they're looking to finish you before you can testify. They weren't part of the car thefts, but you can send them up for a couple years for the break-in and assault, and they ain't interested in going."

"So can't you just arrest them again?"

"No, I can't arrest them again," he mocked tiredly. "I can't arrest someone for something he's _thinking_ about doing."

"So you want us to keep an eye on him, is that it?" Nick asked, straightening up and reaching for Murray's jacket. "Maybe head out to sea for a while?"

"Not exactly. The DA wants him in protective custody until the trial. He has to disappear."

"Well, how are we going to do that?" Cody asked uncertainly.

"You're not. I got a decoy that you're gonna take home and let off at the pier, so if anyone's following, they'll figure out it ain't him just a little too late."

"And where's Murray going to be while we're doing that?"

"He's going with me. And before you ask where, you don't need to know."

"What?" Cody snapped, at the same time Nick said, "No." They traded a look and Nick went on.

"You can't just take him out of here without telling us where you're going. How will we stay in touch?"

"You won't. That's the whole idea. He's gotta disappear without a trace. Me and my captain are the only ones who know where we're going. Any more than that and it stops being a secret."

"But—can't we come along?" Nick asked. He wasn't sure why he was so determined to not let this happen. It just seemed like a very bad idea to let Quinlan take Murray away from them, especially when he was hurt and his life in danger.

"No, you can't come," Quinlan sighed. "There's nothing you can do. An officer's already been to the boat to pack up his clothes; he's putting the bag in my car right now. All that's left is to disguise Bozinsky and get him out of here."

Nick and Cody exchanged another glance and started to argue again, but Murray stopped them this time.

"Guys, no. If it's really dangerous, I shouldn't go home. I don't want to put you in the middle of this."

"We're you're friends, Boz, we're already in the middle of it. Besides, we can protect you," Cody said plaintively. They'd failed the first time by not being there when he broke the case and got himself into trouble, and if they couldn't be the ones to save him now, they would have to carry that guilt forever.

"What if you can't?" Quinlan said harshly. "Is your pride worth his life? Come on, Allen. The trial's set for a week from tomorrow. He testifies, they go up, and he's home in time for supper. Unless they're released on bail until sentencing, but that probably won't happen."

"And if they don't go up?"

"If they get off, they got no reason to go after him again."

"Who's going to be watching him in this hideout?" Nick asked reasonably. "Do you have an officer for that?"

"Yeah. Me. Now you two need to take your decoy and get going. We can't leave until you've drawn off whoever might be watching."

"But—but, Lieutenant—"

"No buts, Allen. We gotta move this thing along. Officer Mitchell's waiting in the hall and there're plainclothes cops all over. Time is money and we're wasting both."

"Guys, it's okay," Murray said, trying to sound like he meant it. "I'll be okay. If it's the lieutenant's job to protect me, I'm sure he will. And it'll kind of make up for your vacation, having me gone."

"Murray, buddy, we don't want you gone," Cody said, pained.

"I know. But so long as I am, you might as well enjoy it. Lieutenant, I don't suppose the officer brought any of my computers? I had a lot of work stacked up…"

"Nope. Nothing you could be traced by. And you won't be making any phone calls, either, so say your goodbyes and let's get going."

"Wait, no phone calls? But it's my mom's birthday tomorrow. If I don't call her, she'll be crushed."

"I'll call your mom," Nick said, resigning himself to the inevitable. "I'll tell her you had to go away for a while but you'll call when you get back. Can I say that, Ted?" he added, putting an unpleasant emphasis on the name.

"Yeah, but that's all. Don't mention the trial or anything else. Just say he's outa town and you don't have a number. Can you manage that, or should I write it down?"

"Mama will be devastated."

"She'll be a lot more devastated if you get yourself killed," Quinlan said flatly.

"Yeah, all right," Nick interrupted. Murray looked like he might cry and no one wanted to see that. "It's gonna be okay, Boz. We'll come to the trial, okay? We'll see you there, and you'll be home before you know it."

Murray nodded and Nick hugged him, more pained than he would have expected by the awkward one armed hug that was all his friend could offer in return. When Cody came over to say goodbye, Nick grabbed Quinlan's arm and led him out into the hall. There was a tall, skinny man with shaggy brown hair and taped glasses standing by the door, but they both ignored him.

"Look, Quinlan, I don't know what's going on here," he said fiercely, "but if you take Murray off and hide him somewhere, you'd better be ready to take care of him. He's hurt and scared and he's gonna need a lot of help. And he _doesn't_ need any of your usual shit. You got that?"

"I know what he needs, Ryder. You and your boyfriend just go on home and leave the police work to the grownups, okay?"

Nick ran his hands through his hair with a heavy sigh, barely restraining himself from grabbing Quinlan's shoulders and shaking him until his teeth rattled.

"Look, he's gonna be fine," the lieutenant said more gently. After all, it wasn't Nick's fault. It was his. "I'd tell you where we were going if I could, but you gotta understand. I ain't your friend, but this time I'm on your side. I mighta let him down the first time by not picking up Blackwell before he got hurt, but I ain't gonna let anything happen to him now. If he doesn't make it to trial, how's that gonna make me look?"

"Right, it's all about you."

"Doesn't matter what it's about. You just tell Mama Bozinsky he's out of town and you don't know where. That's your story, and you'd better stick to it."

"And what if they find you? You could both be dead tomorrow and we wouldn't even know."

"What difference does it make? If he's dead, it doesn't matter when you find out. But he won't be. I'm a good enough cop to keep one geek alive for eight days. Now, this is Officer Mitchell. We're gonna put him in a wheelchair and you're gonna push him out of here and take him home, got that? And don't forget to call him Murray."

"Yeah, all right. But if anything goes wrong, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"Ryder, if anything goes wrong, I'll be dead, too," he said flatly and went back into the room. Cody was still sitting on the edge of the bed, talking seriously to Murray in a low, confident voice, one arm loosely around his bowed shoulders. Quinlan couldn't really hear what they were saying and he didn't want to. He spoke too sternly to Cody and sent him away angry so he wouldn't be sad. Then he was alone with Murray and there was nothing to stand between him and those wounded eyes.

***

Five minutes after Nick and Cody left with the decoy cop, Quinlan wrapped Murray in a patterned blanket, pulling it over his head like a hood, his features lost in the shadows, and replaced his glasses with dark shades. The blanket was dark colored and subtle, but anyone who saw it would remember the blind man it sheltered and not think of a computer programmer at all.

"I can't see a thing," he protested, reaching for his glasses. Quinlan put them in his shirt pocket and guided Murray's good right hand to his left elbow.

"That's the idea, genius. You're gonna pretend to be blind, at least until we get to the car. Hold that blanket so no one can see the sling."

"Where are we going?"

"Doesn't matter. Come on, Bozinsky, don't you trust me?"

"What about my medication? I have—uh—antibiotics and painkillers…"

"It's waiting at the pharmacy downstairs. Just keep your head covered and remember, you can't see."

"Well, I can't," he sighed, his grip tightening on Quinlan's arm as he felt him start to move. He wished he could have made a fuss, begged for Nick or Cody to come along, or even refused to go. But he always tried to do the right thing, even when it meant listening to people like Ted Quinlan. He shuffled after the lieutenant, squinting hopefully through the shades at first, then giving up and closing his eyes. They stopped at the pharmacy and Quinlan asked for a prescription in a name Murray didn't know. Then he followed Quinlan to the car and allowed himself to be tucked away in the front seat, keeping the blanket over his head.

"When can I put my glasses on?" he asked after a while, disoriented by the twists and turns they'd taken since leaving the hospital.

"Now, I guess. But keep that blanket over your head. How's your shoulder?"

"It hurts. Do you think I could have a pill? Would that be all right?"

"You're the doctor," Quinlan shrugged, handing over Murray's glasses. He put them on and fumbled in the paper bag for the bottle. There was nothing to drink but he didn't care. He swallowed the tablet dry and reclined the seat, closing his eyes again. It was around this time that he realized this wasn't the unmarked police car he'd been taken to jail in before. It must be Quinlan's personal vehicle and that seemed strange. Like they were friends or something. Then he remembered they were going into hiding. Of course they wouldn't take a police car that might be identified by its plates. He wondered again where they were headed, but didn't bother to ask. After a few minutes, his mind slowed down and gradually the sound of the motor lulled him to sleep. Quinlan stopped once, locking him in the car while he shopped for a week's worth of groceries, and Murray never stirred.

The next time he opened his eyes, they were in the woods. The road was rutted and rough, and he moaned painfully without intending to.

"So you're awake."

"I think so," he slurred, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. "This is where we're hiding? We don't have to live in a tent, do we?"

"No, we ain't living in a tent. Think I could stand that much of you?"

"That brings me to my next question. Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Guarding me. Why you and not a desk jockey or a patrol cop?"

"Because it's too important. Besides, the department would have to pay those guys overtime, and the brass would scream from now to Christmas."

"What, you don't get overtime?"

"I'm on vacation," he said shortly and Murray didn't ask if it was a joke. It had to be, and besides, asking if things were jokes always seemed to make people mad. "Here's where we're going," Quinlan added, rounding a curve and pulling up beside a shabby clapboard cabin.

"Wow. Does it even have electricity?" Murray asked, forgetting that he didn't have any computers anyway.

"No. There's propane for the stove and fridge and water heater, but you'll have to get your light the old fashioned way."

"How's that?"

"Fireplace, kerosene lamps, sunlight. There's not much to do that needs light anyway, unless you brought your needlepoint."

"I hardly brought anything. Are there at least books?"

"Yeah, I brought books." He turned off the engine and opened the door. "Come on, kid. Let's get you under cover."

Murray was still clutching the blanket, chilled by the painkillers and the deep shade of the forest, as he stumbled groggily after Quinlan and up the cabin steps.

"Whose place is this, anyway?"

"Captain's brother's. No one stays here anymore, they just come up a couple times a year to clean. I guess nobody wants to vacation in squalor these days."

"I can't imagine why," Murray said with a small laugh. Then Quinlan unlocked the door and his sense of humor disappeared entirely. The cabin was one big room with a kitchen in the corner, or what passed for a kitchen, and a big bed in the center. A worn and badly sprung sofa crouched against one wall, and the only door stood open, revealing a primitive bathroom. There was an old table in the kitchen with three chairs around it and no other furniture to be seen.

"What's wrong, Bozinsky? Never been camping before?"

"I think a tent would have been better. Lieutenant, this is awful."

"Be glad there ain't any mice. It's practically luxury. Now go sit somewhere before you fall down and hurt yourself. I got a lot of work to do."

"How do you know there aren't any mice?"

"Captain said so. Anyway, we were up here a couple days ago looking things over and I didn't see any signs."

"Too bad you didn't have time to clean. Are you sure I can't help?"

"You'd just get in the way," he said roughly. They had in fact spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning and he was absurdly hurt that it didn't seem to show.

Murray dragged his blanket over to the kitchen table and sank into one of the old chairs. It was a fifties era set, much like the one he'd grown up with, and the hominess only made him feel more lonely. He'd rather be in the hospital for another week than trapped up here in Grizzly Adams' cabin with this man. But after watching Quinlan make trip after trip from the car, carrying in food and bedding and putting everything away, he started feeling a little bit bad. The lieutenant was trying to be organized, trying to make things comfortable, and at least it looked like they were well prepared.

When he started putting fresh sheets on the bed, Murray offered again to help and was turned down just as brusquely.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Sit there and dream about the cold cuts you're having for supper," Quinlan snapped.

"Fun. And where am I going to sleep?" He cast a doubtful eye on the sofa, which wasn't long enough by several inches, and tried to imagine sleeping sitting up for a week.

"In the bed, genius. Where else?" He saw Murray looking at the sofa and smiled grimly. "No, that's my spot. Almost." The sofa wasn't heavy and he pushed and pulled it away from the wall, across the room and over to the foot of the bed where it faced the door.

"What—"

"Not much of a detective, are you? Gotta guard the door, just in case." He spread a blanket over it and went back out to the car for the last of their things. Murray stayed in his seat and picked listlessly through the box of books that was dropped in front of him. Westerns, spy novels, crime thrillers—Murray thought he'd just learned everything about Quinlan that he'd ever want to know and then some.

"Something wrong, Bozinsky?"

"No, no. Louis L'Amour is my favorite," he sighed.

"I got a deck of cards if that helps."

"Sure, we can play gin for eight days. Lieutenant, I still don't understand why you're doing this."

"I told you, it's my responsibility. Are you hungry?"

"Kind of. What is there to eat?" Murray got up and turned toward the fridge, stumbling over the tail of his blanket and nearly falling. Quinlan caught his left arm, forgetting to be careful, and Murray hissed with pain at the rough grip.

"Sorry," he said perfunctorily. "Maybe you oughta stay there. Let me make you a sandwich or something."

"Yeah, maybe." If he hadn't been so dizzy all of a sudden he never would have agreed, but Quinlan backed him into his chair and turned away before he could recant. And the sandwich was pretty good.

***

They played gin that night by the light of a kerosene lamp and went to bed at eight-thirty. Quinlan helped him get the sling off and divested him of his shirts, with a warning that he'd be dressing differently tomorrow. Murray nodded along, too tired to care much about the morning, and began digging through his bag.

"Oh great," he sighed, shoving it onto the floor in frustration.

"What's wrong now?" Quinlan asked, trying to be patient. He'd volunteered, and the guy was having a shit day for sure, but he was a little bit tired of the bitching.

"Whoever packed this forgot my pajamas."

"You wear pajamas?"

"Doesn't everyone?" he asked innocently.

"No. Probably didn't even think to look for something that old fashioned. Next you'll be wanting your gramophone and stovepipe hat."

"Funny," he said, trying to be sarcastic and laughing instead. So he'd sleep in his underwear. Worse things had happened. Just today, in fact.

"I can build up the fire a little if you think you'll get cold."

"No, I'll be fine. There are plenty of blankets. What about you? Do you have enough—blankets?"

"I don't get cold. It's California, kid. Only skinny geeks get cold in California."

"Well, it _is_ March," he said weakly, standing and unbuckling his belt with one hand. He let his pants drop, toed off his shoes and sank back into the bed. While he watched, Quinlan banked the fire, double checked the door locks and window shutters, and blew out the lamps. Then there was just the quiet rustle of clothing as Quinlan undressed in the dark, and the creak of sofa springs as he lay down.

Murray felt a little strange being so close to a man he barely knew, one that he could apparently get along with, if playing gin was any indication, but who clearly didn't like him. It was like his first year of college all over again, when he was barely thirteen and his roommate was an eighteen year old who resented him more than Murray had ever understood. But to be fair, Quinlan was treating him better so far than that guy had. He was trying to be nice, in his way. Murray appreciated the food and the help with his clothes. He was grateful to have the bed instead of the sofa, knowing Quinlan could have switched on him and he wouldn't have argued. But, all gratitude aside, they weren't friends and this wasn't his home.

He missed the gentle rocking of the boat, the creak of the hull and the sound of lapping waves, and he felt lonely without Nick and Cody nearby. When he needed something in the night, he could call for them and they'd come. He'd only lived with them for three months, but already he was used to them looking after him, stumbling into his cabin in the middle of the night in their shabby robes, comforting him when he woke screaming from bad dreams and bringing him aspirin when he was sick. If he woke screaming tonight, Quinlan would be more likely to shout than comfort. Murray sighed deeply and turned over, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate his shoulder.

"Damn it, Bozinsky, some of us are trying to sleep," Quinlan growled and he froze, flat on his back. It wasn't comfortable, but he might be able to hold still long enough.

***

Murray didn't wake screaming until the second night. He was caught up in a dream where Blackwell and his thugs stood over him and he stared down the barrel of an endless gun, knowing that playing possum wouldn't save him. Tangled in the blankets, thrashing uselessly and shrieking in pain, he couldn't tell in the dark if he was awake or not. When a hand closed around his arm, he tried to pull away and the fresh agony in his chest snapped him back to himself.

"Who—Nick, is that you?" he mumbled, reaching for the light that wasn't there. The strong hand tightened and he heard a soft sigh.

"Nick ain't here, kid. It's me, Quinlan. Are you okay?"

"Quinlan? What's—where—oh. Oh, right. I'm sorry, I didn't—I just had a bad dream. I'm all right."

"Yeah? You want a glass of water or something?"

"No, thanks. I—I just need to go to the bathroom and I'll be fine."

Quinlan let go of his arm and moved carefully to the kitchen table to light a lamp. Murray struggled to sit up and was glad when Quinlan returned to help. He made his way to the bathroom and left the door open, taking advantage of what little light there was. Quinlan waited for him on the bed, wondering what might haunt Murray's dreams and thinking about how he'd woken asking for Nick. Of course he knew that Nick and Cody were together, and he'd never thought for a second that Murray wasn't queer. The kid had it written all over him. But were they _all_ together? That had always been the question, and he thought this probably answered it. It was stupid to have ever thought otherwise, stupid to think that being up here alone would change anything. He may as well have sent a sergeant and let the brass scream about the overtime. Murray didn't like him and never would, no matter how many times Ted saved his life.

"Feel better, kid?" he asked, rising when Murray came back.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I just—I was dreaming about the shooting. Being trapped on the floor with those guys standing over me and nowhere to go. If you hadn't come when you did, if they hadn't heard the siren, they'd probably have finished me off. I dreamed about it in the hospital, too," Murray said, crawling shivering into bed. "They said it would stop but it hasn't."

"These things take time," Quinlan said lamely. "Did—uh—did your friends help you with that?"

"Sure," he said, shrugging his good shoulder. "They help me with everything. You know, when they can."

"Yeah? Anything they can't do?"

Murray peered at him in the dim light, then took off his glasses and shrugged again.

"I guess. Sometimes they—you know, they get busy. They have their own—things."

"Like going to Tijuana?"

"Yeah, like that. They—they have a special kind of friendship and—well, they're my best friends, but they're closer to each other than they are to me. It makes me a little sad that I'll probably never have a—a—friend—like that, but I've never had friends like them before either. Really, I—I can't complain." He struggled with the blankets and Quinlan reached over to cover him.

"Can't complain, huh? You mean they're a couple and you ain't in on it."

"No," he said too quickly. "No, I never said—they aren't—I mean—"

"Don't start lying to me, Bozinsky. I don't care, I ain't looking to out anyone. You ready to go to sleep now?"

"Yeah, I—I'm fine."

"You warm enough?"

"I will be. I'm a little chilly, but it's okay."

Quinlan moved away and blew out the lamp. As he made his way back to the sofa, he felt the bed shake with Murray's shivering and abruptly changed his mind. He went around to the other side and climbed into the bed, moving slowly so Murray wouldn't be scared. The skinny man froze, holding his breath in amazement, and didn't so much as twitch at the feel of Quinlan's bare chest against his back. He didn't understand, but it was warm and friendly and he didn't see a reason to object. Even when Ted's arm slid around his waist, all he could think was that it was good not being cold. The strong hand on his belly and the broad chest that he leaned on made him feel safer than he had since the moment he heard the glass break in the wheelhouse door.

After long moments, his tense body relaxed into the curves of the one that held him. Neither spoke, and when Quinlan's hand slipped under the waistband of his shorts, Murray's only response was a sharp intake of breath. Quinlan wasn't surprised. The halting answers to his questions about Nick and Cody were sufficient to a man who knew how to listen.

He squeezed Murray's cock gently, feeling it begin to stir and stiffen at once. His hand crept lower, cradling Murray's tightening sac and rolling his testicles firmly before easing back up for a longer stroke. Murray gasped again, struggling not to thrust in case he wasn't supposed to. He felt Quinlan's erection against his ass, thick and hard inside his sweatpants, and badly wanted to press back against it. Then the calloused fingers were sliding over the head of his cock, collecting beads of liquid to take the roughness from his strokes, and Murray had no choice. Even through two layers of fabric, Quinlan's shaft slotted neatly between his cheeks and they rocked together as the lieutenant jerked him off. Murray bit his lips to hold back cries of pleasure until he heard Quinlan moan, his breath hot and moist against the back of Murray's neck. Then he let his own soft, needy sounds escape, thrusting harder into that strong hand, no longer thinking about whose it was or what all this might mean.

The slick sound of sliding skin and Quinlan's hungry moans made him soar, and when sharp teeth latched onto his shoulder he came hard, sobbing with pleasure and a vague sense of shame, as if maybe he should have lasted longer. But it had been months since anyone had touched him, and a part of him feared it was a trick of some kind; that Quinlan might stop if he took too long. But the other man went on holding him as he shuddered through the aftershocks, kissing his neck and shoulders as he rocked and thrust.

Murray's enthusiasm encouraged him, and Ted pushed his pants down just enough to let the head of his cock touch bare skin. A small shiver told him Murray had noticed, but he didn't pull away. In fact, he seemed to seek more contact, and Quinlan obliged him by easing his shorts down just a little. They moved together, moaning and sighing until Ted came against his back, biting his shoulder a little too hard, leaving a mark that would serve to prove in the morning that this had really happened.

Murray lay still while Quinlan wiped him clean with someone's t-shirt, and fell asleep still cradled in arms that he had never expected to hold him. This time there were no dreams.

***

When Murray woke next, he was alone. The shutters were open and sunlight streamed in through the windows, brightening up the dingy cabin. He smelled coffee, heard the shower running in the bathroom, and was overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of _home_. But it wasn't. This was temporary. This was Ted Quinlan jerking him off in the dead of night without saying a word. Murray knew men were different; this wasn't his first time. But the others had at least spoken. He'd always gotten up in the morning knowing where he stood.

This time the only thing he knew for sure was that he needed to take a leak. He got up and went to the bathroom door, thinking it over. At home, he would just walk in if one of the guys was in the shower. If they were both in there, he would knock and then wait. That seemed like the best thing to do here. The least potentially awkward. He knocked and the unlatched door swung open.

"You need something, Bozinsky?"

"Yeah, I'll be quick."

"Just don't flush," he said and started whistling behind the plastic curtain.

when Quinlan got out of the shower, Murray was drinking coffee in the kitchen, a flannel shirt draped over his shoulders to keep the chill off his back. He watched from the corner of his eye as the older man dressed and then came over to pour his own coffee. After a moment it became evident that Quinlan was watching him, too, and Murray couldn't help blushing, wishing desperately that he knew what to say. _About last night…_ maybe, or _Does this mean you like me?_, but everything he thought of made him feel young and stupid. High school, all the way.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said at last. "Is there any hot water left?"

"A little. You want bacon or ham for breakfast?"

"Either's fine." He grabbed clean clothes from his bag and escaped to the bathroom as quickly as he could. It would have been nice to stay in there a while and think all this out, but there wasn't much hot water and he had to make it fast. He didn't even shave, and was back in the kitchen, shivering in jeans and a towel, before the bacon was done. Quinlan helped him into a warm shirt without comment, buttoning it over his slinged arm so he wouldn't have to deal with the sleeve. It helped that he could get the sling on and off by himself, but still Murray felt small and childish, like when he was very young and his mother would bundle him up against the harsh Chicago winters. But they were both men, and adults, and adult men could help each other with things like this. It wasn't a big deal. As, apparently, helping each other last night wasn't.

After they ate, there wasn't much to do. Murray wanted to go for a walk, but Quinlan vetoed that without debate, on the grounds that anyone could be in the woods and he mustn't be seen. They played cards for a while, and then Murray lay down with a copy of _The Terminal Man_, reading slowly and trying to pretend he didn't remember how it ended.

At lunchtime, Murray wouldn't eat because he hadn't done anything to make himself hungry. He finished the Michael Crichton and picked up a Tom Clancy, although that had never been his thing. Quinlan made a sandwich for himself and ate it on the sofa, reading a Louis L'Amour that he already knew by heart. The afternoon dragged on, and when Murray was halfway through the second book, he put it aside and began to really look for something to do.

There wasn't much to find, but in the midst of his explorations he ran across an old cribbage board, so they played that after supper. Quinlan didn't know the game and it was highly mathematical, so Murray beat him consistently. He was a good sport about it, though, and only threatened to turn Murray over to Blackwell's thugs once, when Murray double skunked him on the last game.

"At least we aren't playing for money," he shrugged, and Quinlan gave him a suspicious look.

"Bozinsky, I wouldn't play _Candyland_ for money against you."

"That's smart, Lieutenant, because I'm the king of Candyland."

"Figures. Candyland _would_ be ruled by a candy ass."

"That didn't hurt," he laughed and began putting up the board. "I can tell a jealous loser when I see one."

"Whatever. I'm gonna hit the sack. Get my rest for another busy day of diddly shit."

"Good idea." Murray paused, almost said something else, and then didn't. He couldn't quite decipher Quinlan's expectant expression—if there was something Murray was _ supposed_ to say, or if he was just waiting to see what he _would_ say. What finally came out was, "You want the bathroom first?"

"No, you go ahead. I'm gonna have another beer."

He was just finishing the bottle when Murray came back, yawning and working at the buttons on his shirt.

"Is there any of that left?" he asked. "I might sleep better if I had a drink."

"Not with those drugs you're taking. I'm supposed to keep you alive until the trial, remember?"

"Right, alive," he sighed, shrugging out of his shirt. He was aware of Quinlan watching him and didn't really care. People thought he was shy of his body, that he dressed the way he did so they wouldn't look at him, but he was really just cold. Maybe he seemed a little old-fashioned, with the pajamas and high buttoned collars, but that was just habit. If someone wanted to look at him, and it was reasonably warm, he usually didn't mind. But Quinlan turned away as he stepped out of his jeans and he didn't know what to make of that. There was no part of this that he really understood.

The bottle of pills was on the table by the bed and he sat down to try and get the cap off, cursing the fools who insisted that all bottles be childproof. There was no contingency plan for single men, or childless-in-the-wilderness scenarios. It was a one size fits all plan and those never fit him.

"Gimme that," Quinlan said, appearing at his side and snatching the bottle away. He whipped the cap off, gave Murray a single pill, and let him swallow it with the last inch or so of beer from his bottle.

"Thanks," he said, smiling in that happy, geeky way that always left Quinlan feeling sweaty and confused. Murray folded himself under the covers with more grace than he'd shown last night, finally beginning to get the hang of it, and couldn't help noticing that Quinlan wasn't moving away. "You—uh—you don't have to sleep on the sofa if you don't want to," he said at last, his face burning. It was the closest either had come all day to alluding to what happened last night, and depending on how Quinlan answered, the next few days could be very awkward.

But his answer was, "Hmm," and that didn't really help. He took the beer bottle to the kitchen, went into the bathroom for a few minutes, and then returned and blew out the lamps. Murray listened to him undress in the dark and wished he could say something open and honest. Wished he was with a man who could genuinely like him, or at least tell him for sure that he didn't.

When Quinlan lay down on the other side of the bed and seemed to go to sleep, it didn't answer any of his questions. Murray shifted uncomfortably from his side to his back and onto his side again, thinking about how nice it was to be held, to be _cradled_, and wondering if there was a way to ask for that. He'd never felt able to ask for what he needed, not from this man or any other, but when it was offered he was always able to say yes. On a good day, he could even say no to offers that he didn't want. But he wouldn't turn down anything that was offered tonight.

At some point Murray must have fallen asleep, because he was awakened much later by Quinlan's hand on his hip. He listened to the other man's breathing, made sure that Ted was awake and knew what he was doing, and then leaned back until their bodies touched. _Invitation received and accepted._

Quinlan touched him gently, his rough hand gliding up Murray's ribs and over his arm, careful to avoid the uncovered bullet wounds. But he explored everywhere else, caressing the prominent collarbones and thin, nearly hairless chest, tickling Murray's belly until he laughed and then moving down to his groin to hear him moan. He cupped him firmly through his boxers, feeling him grow hard, and when Murray arched back against him, Quinlan let go and pulled off his shorts. _Something different,_ Murray thought, shivering in anticipation. He could tell now that Quinlan was naked, too, and wondered what would happen next. His experience with men was limited, but he knew from what he'd had that he wanted more. And what better time to get it than now, when he was off in the middle of nowhere, lonely and desperate for affection. Fate was good sometimes.

The warm, calloused hands were gentle, encouraging, and Murray rocked his hips tentatively, feeling Quinlan's cock against his ass, seeming somehow larger than last night. Maybe because of what he was pretty sure was going to happen. When Quinlan touched his shaft, fingertips trailing slowly from root to tip, he groaned, low and hungry, thrusting helplessly for more. Then the hand disappeared and the sound he made was one of equally helpless disappointment. Quinlan moved away, leaving him confused and a little embarrassed, as if he'd done something wrong, though he hadn't done anything at all.

Murray lay there, tense with anticipation, wishing the other man would come back and jerk him off again, and knowing that wasn't what was happening. He was a man; he knew how men worked. Quinlan would want something more in exchange for last night's selflessness, something that was more for _him_, although he might try to make Murray enjoy it, too.

Then he felt Quinlan's hand on his hip again, stroking across the slight swell of his narrow ass, and almost before he knew it, the thick, calloused finger was teasing his entrance. He'd found something to use for lubricant, and Murray was as grateful as he was confused. Not surprised—this was what he'd expected, after all—but puzzled by the barrage of conflicting emotions. Fear, embarrassment, desire, and wonder that it should feel good. His rational mind told him that wasn't so strange; there were so many nerves in that area, conducting messages of pleasure from the penis and scrotum, and even the inner thighs, so why not? Yes, that made sense, he decided, and then the fingertip dipped inside him, shattering his rational thoughts like glass.

Murray gasped sharply, then bit his lips in case that made him sound weak. Quinlan's other hand found the back of his neck, holding him gently, comfortingly, as he probed deeper. Murray groaned again, the sound originating from somewhere so low that biting his lips couldn't hold it in.

"That hurt?" Quinlan whispered, the first time he'd spoken.

"No," he lied, not wanting it to stop. The gentle glide inside him was the most intense thing he'd ever felt, pain and pleasure so thoroughly entangled that he'd never get them sorted out. If it just went slow enough, he thought he could take it. And maybe the pleasure would grow to outweigh the pain.

He didn't know what it was when Quinlan touched his prostate, but it felt good in a whole different way. He thrust back hesitantly, intensifying the pleasure as well as the burning pain. Quinlan bent his finger and stroked him without withdrawing, drowning the pain and making him moan.

"Your first time?"

"No," Murray said, and this time it was almost the truth. He had gone this far before, but only once, and that time it had hurt enough to make him stop after just a few seconds.

"Feels like it," Quinlan whispered against his shoulder. "Tight. Nice."

Murray shivered under the compliment, flexing his neck back into the hand that held him, gasping softly when a second finger was introduced. The gentle stroking went on, petting and probing at his sweet spot until he writhed with need, and then suddenly it stopped. The fingers slipped away and he felt Quinlan's cock in their place, slick with lube but still too big, nudging insistently for admission. Murray groaned again, holding still for him but not helping this time. He cried out, a small hurting sob, as Quinlan breached him with the thick head of his shaft. The hand on his neck squeezed reassuringly and he swallowed the next sob. Quinlan held still for a few seconds, then pulled out and tried again. It was easier the second time, but more intense, too. He pushed until the hard ring of muscle clamped down just behind the head and was still again, letting Murray adjust before pulling out once more.

"So fucking tight," he breathed, pressing into him again. Murray groaned with more pleasure this time and dropped his hand to his own cock, wanting to join in. Quinlan caught his wrist, restraining him gently, and whispered in his ear, "Don't. Not yet. It'll make you tighten up more."

"Not yet," Murray repeated.

"Give it a minute." He loosened his grip on Murray's wrist and took his hand instead, twining their fingers together against his stomach. Murray tried to relax, tried to breathe slow and deep as Quinlan opened him with short, easy thrusts, sometimes withdrawing completely to feel how much easier it was to penetrate again. Murray could appreciate that a little, but what he really wanted was for the other man to touch his gland. The rest was almost boring in comparison.

It still hurt just a little as the thick shaft pushed deeper, wider at the base than at the head, and even when it reached the spot he was waiting for, he didn't try to move. Better, safer, to lie still and Quinlan take care of him, stretching him slowly and teasing his sensitive gland.

"God, you're tight," he sighed and the sound of his voice sent a shiver down Murray's spine. Quinlan felt it and suddenly he was moving faster, releasing Murray's hand to grip his cock, driving hard into him as he grabbed a handful of shaggy hair and pulled Murray's head back, exposing and extending his slender neck. Murray cried out, shocked by the conflicting pain and pleasure, so much agony and ecstasy all at once, and was answered by sharp teeth biting into his throat. Oh, that was good. And so was the now-gentle hand on his cock, squeezing and stroking, encouraging him to thrust. He jerked into it gracelessly, needing the (_warm, wet, slick, sweet_) sensation to balance the pain that receded as Quinlan pulled away. Still, Murray was relieved when he withdrew, suddenly hoping to just come and go to sleep without being invaded again. But it was not to be.

Quinlan pushed into him for the last time, working Murray's cock with one hand, pulling his hair with the other, sucking great bruises on his neck as he sought the tender gland that would make it all worthwhile. Murray took him with a soft grunt of effort, trying to find a rhythm that was fast enough to get himself off without driving the other man too deep. Then the thick, blunt head skated across his gland and he forgot about being careful. He sobbed and bucked, fucking himself furiously on the heavy shaft, biting back words of need and desperation. Quinlan stroked him hard and fast, in time to his powerful thrusts, biting and sucking the vulnerable throat until Murray came screaming his name.

He'd thought that sweet little ass was tight before, but it was nothing compared to that ass in orgasm, muscles clenched and rippling, pulling his own climax from him long before he was ready. He could have gone on pounding that ass all night. But as the roaring in his ears receded, he became aware of Murray's labored breathing and muffled almost-sniffling. Carefully, gently, he withdrew and wiped them both off with a towel, proving, in case Murray had had any doubts left at all, that he'd planned ahead. Then he lay down again, his chest against Murray's back, one arm around him and the other hand stroking his sweat-damp hair.

"You all right, Bozinsky?"

"Yeah," he said, with one last sniff. "Goodnight, Ted."

"'Night, kid."

The next morning Murray got up first and was gone from the cabin when Quinlan woke.

***

"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered as he washed and dressed, wishing he had time for coffee. He'd told Murray over and over to stay in the cabin and the guy wasn't stupid. Clumsy and skinny and weak, but not stupid. Quinlan put on his shoes and jacket and burst out the door, then froze on the porch, trying to look in every direction at once. Murray, with his slender height and brown hair, blended in too well. If he was more than fifty feet away in these trees, Quinlan would never spot him.

"Damn," he said again. He didn't want to start yelling for Murray, fearing someone might hear, but if he lost the fool—well, that just couldn't happen. What on earth would make him take off like that when he knew full well what was at stake?

"Damn." Quinlan walked down the steps, service pistol in hand, and moved around the corner of the cabin. The woods were still, with only the chirping of the birds to break the early morning silence. He scanned the woods as he went, hoping to see Murray leaning against a tree or something, but had no luck until he got around the back. There was a wood shed there and Murray was sitting on the chopping block in front of it. He looked all right, alone and not under duress, so Quinlan put his gun back in its holster and went to him.

"What are you doing out here, Bozinsky? Didn't I tell you to stay inside?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes," he said vaguely. "I'm sorry, I thought it would be okay. I didn't go anywhere."

"You're supposed to stay out of sight. If people can see you, you're in danger, genius."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I was just thinking and—and I like to think outside."

"Yeah? What were you thinking about?"

Murray cocked his head, giving Quinlan a puzzled, questioning look that he couldn't interpret. It lasted just long enough for the older man to begin to feel uncomfortable, and then Murray shrugged.

"Nothing, I guess. Should we go inside?"

"_You_ should. Is something wrong, Bozinsky? You don't look too good."

"No, I—I'm just—lonely, I guess. I miss the guys and my work and everything. I've never been good at this kind of stuff. You know, camping, no electricity, Westerns—it's weird for me."

"You're weird. Come on inside." He clapped Murray on the back and the skinny man rose unsteadily.

"Is there coffee?"

"Not yet. I woulda made some but I had to come find you."

"Sorry." Murray was tired of saying that, but he didn't have much else. Last night this man whom he barely knew had been inside him, biting and growling as he came. Murray had the bruises on his neck to prove it, although it was still hard to believe. "I'll make breakfast if you want."

"No, I'll do it. You oughta take a shower, kid. You look like hell."

***

That day passed like all the others, with dull books and card games and cribbage that Quinlan still couldn't win. After lunch, Murray got out a notebook that he'd had with him in the hospital and started making notes for a new program while the lieutenant took a nap. But for the first time in his life, it was hard to concentrate on his work. He wanted someone to talk to, someone to understand his confusion and tell him what to do. Was this how men were with each other? Did they have sex at night and pretend they didn't the next day? Did it mean Ted was gay for wanting him, or that Murray was for accepting? Murray had never put a label on his sexuality, preferring to go after girls for the sake of fitting in while doing what he pleased undercover. Was Ted the same? Did he _like_ Murray, or was he just taking what was to be had in an isolated situation?

At the heart of it was a simple question: was he screwing Murray because they were here together, or did he choose to be here so that he could screw Murray? If it was the former, they would have some good times, then go home and forget about it. Probably. But if it was the latter, then Murray wanted to get to know him a little better. Maybe they could be friends. Maybe they could have some kind of relationship after they went home. Or maybe Quinlan thought they _were_ having a relationship. For all he knew, this was how men did things. And even if they weren't in a relationship now, maybe they could at least keep having sex. Murray thought he'd like to have a reliable source of sex to take the stress off a hard day's work. And, though he'd never been fucked by a man before, he thought Quinlan was pretty good. He just wished he knew if he was being set up.

He scribbled and doodled for a while, then put the notebook aside and moved to the window. Leaning his elbows on the sill, he pressed his forehead to the glass and stared into woods. It would be so nice to go for a walk and see the new leaves and budding flowers. Or maybe they were weeds. He didn't really know what grew wild in the woods, but he wanted to see it. Four days into his witness protection experience, he wanted to see anything that wasn't the inside of this cabin.

"Bozinsky, what are you doing?" Quinlan snapped, startling him so he almost fell out of his chair.

"Nothing. I was just—just—"

"Staring out the window, I see that. Bozinsky, what part of _stay out of sight_ is too complicated for your brilliant mind to understand?" He got up from the sofa and went over to Murray, grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. "Don't make me close the shutters. It's dark enough in here as it is."

"Lieutenant, are there really people tromping around in the woods looking for me? I mean, is anyone _really_ going to notice one little geek prowling through the trees?" he asked, jerking his arm away.

"I don't know. Probably not, but it's too big a chance. Can't let anything happen to you before the trial."

"Yeah, well, tell me something, Lieutenant. Are you really just worried about the trial, or are you worried about _me_?"

Quinlan gave him a long, hard look, his bright blue eyes devoid of guile, and said, "It's the same thing, isn't it?"

Murray threw himself down on the bed and picked up his copy of _The Haunted Mesa_. "No," he said, very quietly. "No, it's not."

"All right, it's not. But you know what I mean. You _are_ the trial, kid. You get your brains blown out by some moron deer poacher, and those guys are gonna walk. Now all you gotta do is stay inside for another four days. How hard is that?"

"I know. And I can do it, I'm just—bored. I'm starting to wish I really did needlepoint."

"Yeah, some doilies would really dress the place up. Now are you gonna stay there and read or do I have to tie you to a chair?"

"Only if you want to," Murray said, turning on his side and opening the book. Quinlan flopped down on the sofa and opened a book of his own.

"Hot dogs okay for supper?"

"Why not?" He read a couple of pages and then took a pill from the bottle on the bedside table. The pain wasn't that bad; he'd even stopped using the sling. But the pills did wonders for the boredom and Quinlan never questioned it. Nick or Cody wouldn't have let him, but they weren't here.

***

Murray woke to the smell of roasting hot dogs and sat up, groggily rubbing his eyes. Quinlan was crouched on the hearth, turning a complicated looking spit over the fire while buns toasted on the stovetop.

"Hey, you should have woken me," he yawned, putting on his glasses. "I'd have helped."

"Don't need help roasting weenies."

"Really? Because your buns are burning."

"Is that some kind of joke?"

Murray got up, still running his hands through his hair, and padded over to the stove in his sock feet. He turned off the burner and put the frying pan on the counter.

"You want ketchup or mustard?"

"Both. Relish, too, if we got any."

"No problem." He dressed the buns while Quinlan pulled the hot dogs off the skewers with his bare hands and dropped them on a plate. "Do we have any chips left?"

"Cheese doodles, I think."

"Boss." He dug around in the cupboards until he found them and put a handful on each plate. "Is anyone going to bring us more food? Because I don't think this is going to last another four days."

"I can go to town if I have to. And if I can trust you to stay inside here and behave."

"I guess there's no chance I can go along."

"Don't you pay attention to anything that ain't a computer, Bozinsky?"

"Yes, I know—killers, trial, only witness…Here're your buns." Murray took a dog and went to sit at the table. "Are you regretting it yet, Lieutenant?"

"Regretting what?" he asked, sitting down across from him.

"Giving up your vacation for this. I've been bitching non-stop, seems like, and it can't be fun for you."

"I don't know from fun, kid, except I ain't getting shot at. That's a nice change of pace."

It was for Murray, too, and he couldn't help laughing.

"You know," he said, capitalizing on the momentary good will, "it's almost dark and it's a nice night out. Would it really be too dangerous for me to just go sit out on the porch for a few minutes?"

"In the dark? What're you gonna do out there?"

"Nothing. Just be outside, breathing the fresh air. Look, Ted, I'll drop it if you say so, but no one would see me and I really need to get outside. I feel like I can't breathe anymore."

Quinlan thought about how good it felt to go out in the morning and split logs in the cool light of dawn. The fresh air, the physical exertion, the feeling of accomplishment (_doing something for Murray that he couldn't do for himself_)—he'd have gone crazy this week without it. Maybe the kid was a geek, and maybe computers were his life, but he still needed to go outside once in a while.

"Yeah, all right. But just for a few minutes, and not until full dark. There's no moon tonight, though, so there's nothing to see."

"I don't care. I don't need to see anything." Murray finished eating in a hurry, washed the dishes, and then paced until Quinlan said it was dark enough. He wanted to prowl the woods now, too, wrapped warmly in his blanket, but knew better than to ask. They went out together, Quinlan wearing his gun, and sat on the steps, which was as far from the cabin as he would allow Murray to venture.

"Is this good enough?"

"Oh, yes. Look at the stars, Lieutenant. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Nothing I ain't seen before," he said gruffly.

"Well, me either. But I haven't seen it in so long…" He leaned back, his elbows on the step behind him, and inhaled deeply, as if drinking in the sky.

"Four days, Bozinsky. I bet when you're hard at work on your computer shit you go longer than that without even noticing."

"Maybe," he shrugged. "But I have something to do, then. This has been—well, it's not that I don't enjoy your company, Lieutenant—it's just—it's not—"

"Not your life. Sure. It's not mine, either. And we ain't exactly friends."

"No, not exactly," Murray sighed. "But, did you ever think maybe we could be? I mean, we've done all right, haven't we? And most people seem to like me. I'm a pretty nice guy."

"Well, you're not an insufferable prick like those beach bum friends of yours."

"Oh, thank you," he said, rolling his eyes. "So you think we'll go back to our old lives and none of this will matter?"

"Why should it?" Quinlan asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"No reason, I guess," Murray said, and went back to looking at the stars.

Later that night, when he was lying face down on the bed with the other man balls deep inside him, the question recurred. One moment he was rocking on his knees and elbows, moaning quiet joy, and the next he was still, trying to turn his head and get Quinlan's attention.

"What?" the lieutenant said harshly, close to coming and in no mood to talk.

"Why—why are we doing this?"

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes," Murray whispered, almost ashamed and not sure why.

"Then what's your problem?"

"No problem," he said and pushed back hard. Quinlan stroked Murray in time to his thrusts and made him come just a few seconds later. It was good and Murray responded with enthusiasm that was neither forced nor faked.

But he lay awake long after Quinlan went to sleep, wondering what his problem really was. He'd never had casual sex before, and the sex he'd had was never like this. The truth was, he didn't want it to end. He wanted to go home, of course. Sleep in his own bed, with his friends and his computers nearby, but he wanted to keep having this kind of sex with this man whom he couldn't understand. This man who was apparently fucking him because he was there, and would fuck someone else just as easily when he wasn't. Murray might be a genius, but he saw no way around that.

***

After that, they sat on the porch every night for an hour or so, taking in the stars and the cool, crisp air, Quinlan in shirtsleeves and Murray wrapped in his blanket. There was never much conversation, then or any other time. Murray thought he talked to Nick and Cody more in a day than he did to Quinlan all this week, but Quinlan touched him more. And it wasn't just the fucking, or helping him dress, which he didn't have to do now anyway. It was all kinds of casual contact, like Nick and Cody shared freely with each other, but not quite as freely with him. Quinlan had a way of laying his hand on Murray's shoulder as he passed behind him at the table, of gripping his arm when he spoke, even touching his face lightly to keep his attention, all so oddly lover-like, it never failed to make him blush. Yet they weren't friends. Quinlan had made that very clear, and though Murray was confused, he accepted it.

His confusion grew deeper the last night when Quinlan got into bed and, instead of fucking Murray from behind, turned him over and kissed him softly. Murray's heart leapt into his throat and he wrapped his arms around the broad shoulders, holding on tight. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been kissed on the mouth and it thrilled him in a whole new way. Made him feel he was a man to be desired, possibly even loved, not just an object to serve a purpose. For the first time it was like making love, Quinlan moving inside him, slow and gentle, running calloused thumbs over Murray's cheekbones as he plundered the soft, sweet mouth.

Early in the morning they packed the last of their things, locked up the cabin, and drove back to King Harbor.

Nick and Cody met them at the courthouse, both surprised at how well he'd recovered without them, and in so little time. But they were grateful for his strong hugs and renewed enthusiasm, and if it was shadowed with any uncertainty, neither noticed.

They brought a suit for him, purchased just for this occasion, wanting him to look as good as possible for his testimony, without any bow ties or excessive sock exposure. Murray changed in the men's room and let the bailiff lead him off to wait his turn. It didn't come that day, so he was sent to a hotel under police protection. Quinlan slept in the other twin bed, knowing there were two cops in the hallway and they were safe enough, but it was best to be quiet. The last thing he needed was for them to hear that desperate sobbing sound that Murray made when he came.

No, he'd told himself it would end when they left the cabin in the woods, and it was better to stick to that. Safer not to fool around at home where they'd get caught. As long as it was just two guys alone in the woods, it was one thing. In town, anything could go wrong. Murray could reject him, or worse, see that he cared.

***

The trial ended the next day. After the defendants were remanded to the county jail to await sentencing, there was nothing to prevent Murray from going home with his friends. He looked for Quinlan in the courtroom after the verdict was read, but the lieutenant was already gone.

"Are you excited about being back?" Cody asked happily, slinging an arm around his shoulders as they went out to the car. "We cleaned your room for you and stocked up on your brain food. You know, sugar and caffeine."

"Oh, that was nice of you," he said. "Really. And I can't wait to get back to the boat. But—uh—did either of you see what happened to Quinlan?"

"He left after you testified. Come on, let's go celebrate. You up for _Straightaway's_?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. So, Quinlan, he just left?"

"Uh-huh. About fifteen minutes ago. Why, you need him for something?" Nick said without much interest.

"No, not really. So what were you guys up to while I was gone?"


End file.
